THE OPEN WINDOW 



skimming from tree to tree in a merry race with his 

 mate, or pecking at his bit of food held deftly in one 

 claw, or doing gymnastic stunts from the ends of 

 branches. His notes, too, are as varied as his moods. 

 He seldom alights on the sill without a little "cheep" 

 and the woods echo with his well-known song. After 

 the frost my window box is transformed into a buffet 

 where various bird delicacies are carefully displayed, 

 and often when I rush to the window to scare away 

 the squirrel from this birds' table, my little 

 chickadee cocks his head on one side and cries, "Dee, 

 dee, you are really too kind." Occasionally he 

 bubbles over in a joyous trill so unlike his usual call 

 that I look out quickly to be sure it is he. 



For days the stillness of the early dawn had been 

 broken by two soft, sad notes in falling cadence. A 

 Peabody bird in January? The call was so like the 

 attempts of young birds of that species that I searched 

 the near-by trees, the terrace wall, the shrubs; but I 

 saw only a few juncos, an English sparrow or 

 two, and of course the chickadees. Is it possible that 



